The Rise of Millhouse Manastorm
by AlexRB
Summary: Cultist. Stowaway. Vagabond. Magus. Few know of the gnome Millhouse Manastorm. Most have written him off as a bumbling fool, not able to understand the labyrinthine mind of this diminutive, demented genius, or what he is truly capable of. This will be the World of Warcraft's last miscalculation. Rated MM for Millhouse Manastorm.
1. Prologue

_**A new threat to Azeroth looms on the horizon. Fate throws together an old, crippled drunk, a tavern maid and a young adventurer in a fight for their lives - and perhaps for their whole world.**_

**Hey all. This is my first story on FanFiction; I'm trying out the site. I present you with the Rise of Millhouse Manastorm! Rated M for intense violence, sexual content and some language.**

**I'm writing for reviews (comments, questions, praise and critique all welcome). I have the first 4 chapters up. If the story isn't reviewed, then it won't be continued. Enjoy!**

**I do not own any of the characters, lore or setting of Warcraft, which belongs to Blizzard Entertainment.**

The wind blew cold and lonely just before the onset of night, and today was no exception. Not even the thick-furred wolves or a solitary ogre could be seen as twilight fell on the rocky tundra. Bitter currents periodically tore up clouds of snow from the heavily laden earth, giving the whole region a bit of an icy mist. The only relief from this whiteout were the cliffs, which jutted like black fangs out of the extremes of the region. Some of these cliffs held cupped in their hands pools or rivers of lava, shortly revealed before the magma retreated back beneath the aptly named Frostfire Ridge.

Despite these brutal elements however, there was one figure forcing its way through the walls of wind and snow. It was diminutive, and altogether slight, but did not cease in taking one step after the other towards it destination, no matter how intently the shrieking winds or whirling snow tried to deter it. Matters may have turned out differently if she had been deterred.

Unfortunately if Atelli Kallerion were anything, it was not easily deterred. Using her long sword as a walking stick, she pulled herself up towards a family of cliffs, which looked down at her impassively. Step by step the blood elf (called sin'dorei, in her own tongue) forced her way up the mountain, until she could see the dim outlines of bonfires.

In short enough order, she had dragged herself up the rest of the cliffs, until she was within walking distance of the fortress, in front of (and within) which sat a ring of bonfires necessary for the warmth of the soldiers.

Her soldiers. She finally came to a halt and waited until an orc in heavy armor had jogged over to her.

"Commander!" the orc thumped his chest. "What news from the Frostwolves?"

Atelli squinted at him, her vision still crusted with snowflakes. "Who?" she asked.

The orc blinked, keeping his arm across his breastplate. "The Frostwolf Clan," he repeated. "You went to aid them."

"Oh. Yes." Atelli walked by the orc, who fell in step beside her quickly. "The brown-skins. They're fine, I think." She unslung and dug into her pack. "I hunted for this."

The orc followed his leader into the garrison. Atelli withdrew a couple baubles, some of which glowed with obvious power. "Critical to the campaign," she explained, as the orc looked them over blankly.

"Of course, commander," he grunted. Leave the generaling to the general, he scolded himself.

"How is construction coming?" Atelli asked. "Is the tavern finished?"

"And some, commander," the orc said. Salutes and nods followed them as they walked throughout the garrison. "There is even a traveler who stopped by, eager to meet with you. He's there now."

"Probably wants to pledge himself to me too," the blood elf muttered. "Fine. What of the trading post?"

"Still underway, commander."

Atelli spoke sharply in a tongue the orc did not understand. "How are we to have alcohol and food for the tavern without a trading post?" she demanded.

"Er… I don't imagine we will, commander."

"Rhetorics…" Atelli rolled her eyes. "What's your name again, grunt?"

"Warmaster Zog, commander."

"Zog," the blood elf said. "I leave this garrison to run itself, so that I can save this damned, dung-skinned, orc-ridden world and I freeze half to death every time I do. When I come back, I expect to return to some sort of civilization. A place I can at least thaw."

The orc nodded. "Which is why we built the bonfires, commander," he said.

"Yes," Atelli nodded with him. "But there is more to living than being properly thawed, Zog. We need furniture, provisions and water other than melted snow. Civilization, Zog! I'm sleeping on the floor of our war room, wrapped in skins still bloody from the kill."

Zog shuffled his shoulders. "There is honor in that, commander," he said, a bit tightly.

Atelli took a breath, and pulled Zog to a stop. The two of them were squarely outside of the tavern, freshly built. Nearby, on another stretch of land, peons were hard at work structuring the groundwork for what she hoped would one day be a center of trade for the region.

She indicated to it. "I need finer things, Zog," she told the Warmaster. "I need silks. Mattresses. Wine. Spices. Mana crystals. For the gods' sake, the only bath we have around here is when we have Vivianne melt snow en masse. I smell like a boar."

"Boars are strong."

Atelli stared at the orc. "No one wants to be a boar, Zog," she snapped. "Least of all me. If I'm not living in some sort of Silvermoon-esque environment soon, there will be the Legion to pay. Keep that in mind. And that's an order."

It was then that Atelli saw something in Zog's eyes. It wasn't much of anything, and perhaps if she hadn't been a blood elf, keen to the subtle workings of magic, she wouldn't have noticed anything amiss at all. As it was, she got the feeling that Zog was suddenly very hostile, very angry, and very… something else that she could not place. Instincts that had made her one of her race's greatest champions - hell, one of _Azeroth's_ greatest champions - were very abruptly screaming at her.

Whatever it was, it was gone the next moment, and Zog saluted again, if a bit more stiffly this time. "Commander," he grunted, and turned to mosey his way back to the war room.

Atelli shuddered to herself. Whether it was the cold or something else entirely, she couldn't tell. She decided to wipe it from her mind with a long session of looking over her gathered goods, and then taking a long nap, hopefully on a mattress of some sort, though she wasn't about to get her hopes up.

Shouldering her pack again, she shoved her way through the inn door. A rush of warmth greeted her, thanks to a huge fireplace that was stuffed full of burning timber. A scent of heavy pine and some other odor she couldn't place overwhelmed her.

_This smells like Eversong_, she realized. An intense feeling of homesickness overwhelmed her. Images of her and her brothers and sisters swimming in the summer in the lakes between the woods, just in sight of Silvermoon City, rushed to her. Before the Second War, or the Third, she had loved to play by the lakes and watch the waters sparkle without blemish or pollution.

"Beautiful," she whispered, almost unconsciously.

"It could be like that again, you know."

Atelli glanced. Sitting in front of the inferno of a fireplace was a tiny figure covered in silver and violet robes. Snow white hair shot out sharply in every direction from his scalp and face. He was very still, but somehow she knew it was this figure who had spoken.

"Are you the traveler?" she asked. She shifted the weight of her bags. "I was told you wanted to see me."

The gnome - she realized the figure was a gnome - made a nodding motion. "I've been a lot of places, sweetie," he said. "I suppose you could call me a traveler. But I never really knew where I was going." He turned around and locked eyes with Atelli.

The blood elf met the eyes. The bag slipped off her shoulder a bit.

"Until now," the gnome said.

"I'll be back in a moment, Lord Manastorm," she murmured. She glanced about the room, saw and ignored the bartender, who lay slumped over the table, his intestines still leaking onto the floor. She jogged up the stairs, bounding lightly over the corpses of guards whose blood pooled in a thick, black pond at the base of the steps.

"Of course, sweet cheeks," Millhouse Manastorm said. He tilted his head at the fire, and raised a hand, twirling his fingers a bit, like he was twisting his mustache. The tongues of the fire lashed out, tickling the wooden walls of the tavern.


	2. Chapter 1

_Nethergarde, Azeroth. Dusk._

_The Rising Sun_ tavern was quiet. This wasn't unusual, even for the late hour. Mama Morton exited the kitchen and unconsciously counted her customers. One, the captain, Refaust, tearing at a boar flank in the center of the tables littered about the half-built common room. And two, a middle-aged man who sat at the bar proper, a cup nursing between his calloused hands.

Bored (as she was recently finding herself), Mama Morton contented herself with resting on her elbows next to and opposite the second of her customers.

She picked at the innards of the _The Rising Sun_ with her eyes, noting or reminding herself of what maintenance still needed to be done. The northeastern half of the room was only half-built, offering an admittedly beautiful view of the sea beyond the ridge on which the tavern (and Nethergarde Keep - or what was left of it, anyhow) rested. She'd intended for that whole portion to be wall, as she'd already put in an open-aired window on the south side to give travelers sight of the main road and - if their eyes were sharp enough - of the Portal it led to. But now that she saw the view, she was considering if that had been the right choice.

"But another pane and I'd feel like a church," she voiced her thoughts.

The middle-aged man pushed his eyebrows up to regard her. "Is something wrong with that?" he asked, taking a dip.

"Don't matter what I think." Mama Morton said. "Matters what you and him think." She indicated to the captain, who was in the midst of a devouring, oblivious to all. "Folks who sleep here ain't for church as usual, anyhow. My old Da used to tell me we was competing franchises, us and church."

The middle-aged man nodded, his eyes going back to his cup. "Must be the wine," he said.

Mama Morton nodded with him and they both returned to their respective silences.

She had learned to appreciate Bern - that was the middle-aged man's name, or at least the one he had given her when he'd first showed up at Nethergarde all those years ago. Calling him a loyal customer was a bit of an understatement. Even after Nethergarde had been sacked and returnees were few and far between, Bern had turned up as soon as there was a stool to sit on and alcohol to drown in. She'd lost count of the months and years he'd been around, faithfully drinking himself to death every night and sleeping without a snore in his corner of the pub.

While he drank, she looked him over. A number of scars confused the issue of whether he had been born ugly, or if his ugliness had been acquired. Either way, he wasn't much to look at, but not many drunks she'd met were.

If there was such a thing as a good alcoholic, then she imagined Bern was just that. He always paid with that fat pouch he had in his heavy coat, which never seemed to run dry. And if he ever did got rowdy (which was rare), his left leg was dead, so she could push him over just as easily as pushing over a vase full of flowers if the need came.

But like she said, he was rarely trouble. In fact, when the trouble came, Bern was more than likely to be on her side than not.

She noticed he had neared the bottom of his current. Forcing herself up, she turned and walked over to the kitchen door. She stuck her head in. "Casi, another round for Bern," she called.

The girl glanced up from the cake she was bent almost perpendicular over. Her straw-colored hair drawn back tightly to avoid peppering it into the food, she looked taut, like a bowstring about to snap. The chocolate cake she had been laboring over was for the captain. But the captain's speed, which she had observed with alarm when she had proudly delivered his boar, was driving her like a whip.

"For Bern?" Casi Morton echoed. Her expression was the kind of blankness extreme exhaustion might bring you.

"Aye, another round," Mama Morton said, refusing the temptation to smile. "Tips aren't for sluggards." Then she exited the kitchen and returned to the bar.

Casi Morton was her niece by her soldier brother who lived in Stormwind City. After the Iron Horde had been pushed back through the Portal, Mama Morton had decided to make her way back and help rebuild the fortress-town she had loved. Her brother, hoping to make something of a daughter who seemed to find nothing but trouble in the city, sent Casi with her to learn how to be an innkeeper.

Bern was just finishing his ale. "If you keep this up," he said, pushing his cup towards her. "You'll kill her before you do me."

Mama Morton grunted. "She's young," she pushed the cup back at him. "Young and pretty. She'll make a hell of a innkeep or a hell of a whore." She wagged a finger at him. "The difference'll be me."

Bern snorted. Casi made her way out of the kitchen and Mama stepped back. Casi picked up the mug and asked, "More of the same, sir?"

"If it pleases you," he said. He turned her back on him to face the kegs, which were stacked behind the bar. With a breath, she stood on her toes, stretching herself just far enough to reach the keg marked **Aerie Peak Pale**. After a moment, she resealed the keg and returned to Bern, who had withdrawn a very old, very full pouch of coins.

"My thanks, Casi." Bern gave her a silver more in tip.

Before the girl could thank him, or distractedly turn again for the kitchen, the door to the tavern was abruptly knocked open, loud enough for even the captain to glance up from his feast.

In walked a young man, layered in a mail coat, greaves and well-made boots, all covered in the coppery dust the so-called Blasted Lands were famous for. In his hand he held a longbow, and on his waist hung a sword and a quiver of arrows, with a second reserve of shafts tied tightly to his back. His hair was splayed every which way and his face was sweaty and grimy. But somehow, despite all this, the young man looked like he was fresh from a Stormwind salon.

He surveyed the inn for a moment, then laid his amber eyes on the bar. "Some of your finest," he called as he walked over. He took a glance at Bern (who didn't glance back) and settled for a seat two spaces down from him. He rested his bow beside him. "And something to eat as well, if you could. I'm damned starving." He glanced at the captain, who had resumed his eating after apparently deciding the newcomer was no threat. "I think I'll have one of those, if you've got 'em," he indicated. "But first, could I have some bread to take the edge off?"

Casi looked at Mama Morton. Mama Morton looked back at Casi.

"Er… of course, sir." Casi clasped and unclasped her hands three times, and then came to the traveler's side, then left to pick up a mug. "You certain you have no preference, sir?"

The young man watched her watch the kegs. "Actually," he said. "I think I'll try the Aerie Peak stuff, if it's not too much trouble."

After she had retrieved it and given him his ale, he handed her a gold coin. "What's your name, miss?" he asked.

"Casi Morton," the girl said, her eyes suddenly wide at the show of wealth.

The traveler hid a smile, and leaned back. "Please," he said. "Call me Silas, m'lady Casi. I'm going to be needing a room tonight too, but whatever's left of the coin is yours.

"You're very generous," Casi said. "You must… You must be an important man, sir."

Silas shrugged disingenuously. "Well, you could say I'm important Casi, but I think it more accurate to call me…" he paused, then finished, "…dangerous."

Bern and Mama Morton locked eyes. To keep a facial expression from appearing where it didn't belong, the drunk took a long draught.


	3. Chapter 2

The night grew late. When Casi wasn't flying from the kitchen to the bar like a caged bird with claustrophobia, she would listen to Silas as he recounted his adventures. Bern also listened, more curiously than anyone present would have thought of him to be. The captain soon finished his meal and, after bidding the group a good night belch, retired to the meager barracks that the still-ruined Nethergarde Keep housed.

"You were fighting the Dreadmaul ogres?" Casi murmured, a bit in awe. She was refilling Bern's mug.

Silas nodded seriously. Bern hadn't seen him touch his drink since he'd first tried it, when Casi had been in the kitchen. The poor archer had practically choked, and when his fit had died down, Bern had been sure to be smirking only into his cup. Still, a silent glare had been shot his way, and another stool had been added to their distance.

"The Dreadmaul are a plague," Silas was saying now, with too-obvious disgust. "They slaughter the wildlife - the little of it this place still has - and make them into detestable stews, upon which they glutton themselves at night. I've even heard they'll throw in a live traveler, if they can catch him on the main road." Casi's hand shot to her mouth. "They raid both Horde and Alliance outposts with impunity." He took a breath. "I took it upon myself to stop them."

Mama Morton wandered over to the two. "You say the Dreadmaul are no longer a threat to the region?" she asked, curious.

Silas nodded again. "There were some survivors, I admit," he said. "I didn't want to commit a genocide against them, no matter the fact that they were… ogres. I let some escape. But their usual resting spot on the other side of the Defiler's Rise is now vacant, yes."

Mama Morton turned to Casi. "There's sure to be tons of supplies there," she said. "We could finish that wall if we had some of the ogres' materials. When your other duties are done, I want you to go and start bringing what you think we need here."

Before Casi's face could even take its full fall, Silas saw her reaction and interceded. "If its building materials you need, I could go back," he offered. "In fact, it's no trouble. I remember some things that would be perfect for this place."

"No, no," Mama Morton said. "You're our guest. You shouldn't be running our errands."

"It's really no trouble at all," Silas insisted, shrugging. "I'd be happy to do it. Besides, if any ogres came back, it wouldn't be safe for Casi." He hesitated then pushed on, with gravitas. "And that would be on my head for letting them live."

Mama Morton eyed the young adventurer treacherously. His bravado failing him for a moment, Silas looked away from her and reset his gaze to Casi. Her eyes were sparkling.

"It's decided," Silas announced. "I won't take no for an answer." He pushed back his chair and stood, grabbing his bow. "I'll head there now, while the ogres are hopefully still dispersed. I shouldn't be long."

"Thank you Silas," Casi said earnestly. "You're a true hero. How can we repay you?"

Silas waved his hand. "The bread has settled me stomach," he said. "Simply have my full meal ready for me when I return."

"Of course." Casi paused, smiled shyly, then skittered away into the kitchen. Mama Morton, after an unrevealing pause, followed her charge.

Bern took a breath and put down his mug. He turned and glanced at Silas as he gathered his things. The adventurer caught the old man looking.

"See you soon, old man," he said, with a grin. Before he left, he faced the direction of the kitchen and and made an incomprehensible back and forth movement with his hips.

Bern snorted again, but did raise a glass his way. When Silas left, he finished his drink, then reached and pulled over the young hero's mug.


	4. Chapter 3

Night dwindled into deep night. Thanks to the half-constructed wall, Bern could see the sky clearly.

He marked each star and heavenly body as it began to arrive. As the minutes turned to hours, constellations formed before his very eyes, sprinkling the black tapestry with pin-pricks of light. The moon was half, illuminating the rocky, blood-red earth that stretched out beneath Nethergarde.

As the stars came, he made a game of noting the well-known constellations, and then imaging his own formations. With the stars as his tools, he had formed shields and weapons, but in the past few weeks he had been studying a collection that strung together in a way that had reminded him of the districts of Stormwind.

When this too grew old, the Portal that hid behind a ridge slipped into his thoughts and he wondered if Outland - or Draenor, as he had heard it called now - were among the stars, made tiny only by distance.

_Amazing,_ he thought. Could each star be a world? Could each pinpoint in the sky be as teeming with culture and life as this one was? The world he had known when he was young had seemed big enough, walking Stormwind's winding streets, catching glimpses of the yawning woods beyond the walls. What kind of wonder and mystery might other worlds hold?

While he mused, Mama Morton returned from the kitchen, stifling a yawn. She picked up a wine glass. "Need a filler before I head to the sack?" she asked him.

"I think this'll be my last," Bern said.

She nodded and pulled some Dalaran Noir from a shelf. She poured herself her regular nightcap. Once it was topped off, she rested beside Bern and indicated to the door. "Casi's cleaning up, then she'll be to bed. You think that archer will be back?"

Bern shrugged. "What would I know of men like that?" he asked, through his drink.

"Men." Mama snorted. "He hardly looked off his mother's tit. What happened to boys taking an apprenticeship or learning a trade?"

"He may have heard the masters were tyrants," Bern said. "A life of adventure might have seemed a safer choice."

"Damn right it's safer," Mama Morton muttered. She picked up her glass and exited the bar, heading to the tavern's bedroom wing. She opened the entrance to its hallway, then paused, as she did every night, and gave Bern one last hard look. "You sure you don't want a room?" she asked him.

Bern didn't turn. "Common's fine," he said.

Behind his back, Mama smiled. "Night Bern," she said, watched him for a moment, then closed the door.

Bern listened to Casi's light footfalls as she closed up the kitchen. On a regular night, he would have finished his cup off, still watching the stars. He would listen to Casi as she cleaned up, and when she came out to wipe down the bar, he would pass her his empty cup and wander over to his corner of the common room where a space was cleared, covered in wool blankets and curl up for the night. Once she was finished with her work, Casi would bid him a polite goodnight, and he would pretend he was asleep. Once she too was gone, he would then lay wide awake for hours still, alone but for the stars until sleep at last came like a merciful murderer and took him away.

But this was no ordinary night. There would be no more ordinary nights for the small family of _The Rising Sun_ ever again.

The sound of heavy breathing pricked Bern's ears. He paused mid-sip, resting his cup lightly on his arm. A few more moments, and the breathing was accentuated by the sound of something being dragged through dirt.

"Casi," Bern called, deciding to still keep his back to the door. "Another round, if you please."

The maid came out a moment later. By the way she looked at him, Bern guessed she was not pleased by his late request. He thought it was to her credit that despite her being bone-deep exhausted, covered in sweat and very, very upset, she still looked good enough to make him wish for his youth.

"Bar's closed once Mama goes to bed," Casi snapped at him. "You—"

Bern raised a hand and glared at the young maid with an intensity so sudden and unexpected, she stopped short. He put a finger to his mouth and indicated to the door.

Casi heard it a moment later, and her brow furrowed. "Who could…" Then she brightened. "It must be Silas," she told Bern. "I was starting to get worried."

"You and me both," said Bern.

The door was suddenly kicked open with a violence that made Casi jump. Two figures tumbled into the common room. One was Silas, who was trying to carry the second, who was so covered in blood that its race and gender were indistinguishable. Whoever it was looked like they were dead.

"Gods!" Casi exclaimed. "Silas, are you—"

"Hel—" Silas tried to say something, tripped over his own feet, and went down. Both he and the other figure collapsed on the floor of the tavern with a loud crash. The second figure rolled on its back and groaned. Huge tusks for teeth jutted out of barely distinguishable green lips. Casi stared down at the creature in horror.

"That's a…" Casi blinked. "That's an orc! Silas, what happened?" She tore out from behind the bar and scrambled to the archer's side.

Silas tried to say something, but failed, and his eyes fluttered, his breathing ragged.

Silas's fall had drawn Bern's attention, turning him in his seat. At first he smiled at the young hero, obviously unwounded and on his back. Then he saw the orc and his smile vanished.

"Are you hurt?" Casi asked, looking over Silas's gear. Bern forced himself off his stool, favoring his good leg. "Did—"

"_I didn't… AH!_" Casi and Silas practically leapt up. The orc let out a long, angry moan. "_The Portal… I need to get—_" the orc heaved, still on his back, then spat, blood dribbling from his tusked lips.

Bern stood over the orc. Casi's blank gaze went to the cripple.

"Well," Bern mused. "Warchief. Funny meeting you here." Using his good foot, he stepped on Thrall's throat and pressed hard.


End file.
